Burnt Ashes
by Mariani
Summary: In the summer of 1997, the battle over meth and cocaine was waged in one of the worst drug wars in German history. And caught in the middle are our four boys. Multiple het and slash pairings. M for drugs, violence, language, and sexual themes.
1. 2009: Prologue

**November, 2009**

Something in the man's face says right away that he is uncomfortable with tight spaces. And frankly, after reading his case file, and considering the positively unfriendly air the interrogating room offers, the detectives understand.

For a war survivor, the man certainly doesn't look the part. He isn't short or gangly or shrunken into himself in any way. He arrived to the stationhouse in a black suit jacket, which he has since removed and draped over the back of his chair to reveal the crisp white button-down underneath. He is tall, a good six feet perhaps, and appears sturdy. That, paired with a neat head of combed jet black hair, an expensive gold wristwatch flashing at his wrist, and a sharp, ironed appearance all the way down to the polished toes of his Ferragamo loafers, indicate not a victim, but the textbook American businessman.

"Hello again, Mr. Marsh," says Detective St. Claire, nodding. Mr. Marsh says nothing back, only watches in a tired way as the detective takes his seat. His partner, a real hard-ass by the name of Thompson, remains in the corner of the room nearest to the door, more comfortable with pacing around Marsh's chair than making himself at home at the table. The way Marsh is sitting, he seems to want to convey an air of ease, but the desperate edge of his eyes betrays him.

"How are you this morning?" St. Claire feels ridiculous for having to ask, but it is standard procedure.

Marsh runs a hand through his orderly hair, splitting it into soft wavelets between his long, lean fingers. "Wonderful," he says, in a way that suggests he's anything but. He glances over at Detective Thompson, and his brows harden into a glare. "I love being dragged out of my office in the middle of the day by the Feds."

Thompson chuckles, and says, "Behave, Marsh," like they're old friends. Mr. Marsh folds his hands on the cold, scratched surface of the table, staring deeply into his knitted fingers.

"Ah, yes. And I'm sorry for that, Mr. Marsh, I really am." St. Claire sighs. He opens up the manila folder he was supplied with, speaking as he rearranges the countless pages inside across the space between himself and their witness' hands. "But we're a bit urgent to get full witness statements, you see. The detective manning the investigation passed away recently, and his death brought his work into light yet again."

"Investigation of what?" Marsh deadpans, terribly uninterested. His eyes are half-lidded, and he appears ready to fall asleep.

St. Claire, having finished rearranging the documents before him, says to Marsh, "Does the name Erik Ernst-Schröder mean anything to you, Mr. Marsh?"

The man's sudden exhaustion drains instantly, and his eyebrows rise over wide eyes. For a moment, he seems almost frightened. The detectives both smile – _Got him _– until Marsh's expression relaxes again, falling completely, in fact, as he answers in a mumble, "Never heard of him."

Thompson laughs from his corner of the room. Leaning in the direction of his partner and witness, he hassles in an almost friendly matter, "Come on, Marsh! The Nazi scumbag who's currently doing three life sentences for heading that major drug movement in Eastern Europe back in the 90's? Don't tell me you _forgot_ your boss."

"Nope," says Mr. Marsh, cold again. "You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"How about your high school girlfriend, Wendy Testaburger?" St. Claire tries once more, this time pushing the death certificate toward Marsh. He hardly reacts, doesn't look down. "The girl who Schröder trafficked as his primary call girl for the same span of five years _you_ spent under his control, before she died of an infection in 2001."

"Ernst," Marsh spits in a sudden burst of energy. He sits up. "He went by 'Ernst.' Said he didn't respect his father enough to take his namesake."

"Ah!" Thompson declares, and moves in closer. "So you do remember," he muses. St. Claire's face, though shadowed, grows a definite smirk.

"So?" Marsh shrugs, tipping his chair back. "It was twelve years ago. I've been clean ever since I got out of that. And unless you're arresting me for something, I don't _need_ to be here."

"Oh no," says St. Claire. "We're not arresting you. We just need to clarify a few things." He slides another piece of paper across the table. Once again, Marsh makes no move to examine it or even acknowledge its presence in front of him. "Do you remember Nikolai Jovan?"

Mr. Marsh's eyes grow distant, but otherwise, he has no reaction to the name. St. Claire taps the paper. "Remember? One of Sch – excuse me, _Ernst's_ distributors that you and three of your buddies were accused of killing back in '92?"

"And those charges were dropped," Marsh says. The venom in his words has returned. He gives them a threatening look from beneath his brow. "Is_ that_ what this is about? Because, if it is, I can assure you both, that was a long time ago."

Thompson nods absently. "Seventeen years, yes. And don't worry, Stan, we're not here about that. Live and let live, right? We all do stupid things when we're teenagers."

Stan says nothing. He looks at Thompson distrustfully, then at St. Claire with a question in his eyes. The detective says, "But we were actually hoping you could tell us a little bit more about that stupid thing you did, Mr. Marsh…if you don't mind."

"I do, actually," he says. "I mind a hell of a lot, Detective. And frankly, I'd rather not relive those five years again, thank you."

St. Claire cocks his chin out, ready to go in for the kill. "Not even for Kyle?" he asks, in the most unthreatening manner that he can. It's against protocol, but he knows it's what must be done to get this witness to cooperate.

And it works. This time, Marsh doesn't even bother hiding his surprise. The question hits him across the face, and his mouth goes slightly slack as he's dumbstruck by it. "Kyle…" he chokes out. Abruptly, he swivels his head toward the mirrored, two-way window leading from the interrogation room out into the stationhouse. His voice floods with garroted hope when he says, "I-is he here?"

"Yes," Thompson answers, gesturing to the third window of the room, one shielded by blinds. "He's in there being questioned by two other detectives of the squad." He folds his arms, pushing up against the wall he's settled against. He seems to be daring Marsh to make a dash for the window.

Instead, Stan sits still for a few moments. His eyes are locked in another realm, in another time, and his mouth hangs slightly ajar. St. Claire can see his hands shaking.

"So," he says quietly, feeling as though, if he speaks any louder, the man before him might shatter. "The summer of 1992. Let's start there."

Stan blinks, allowing his mouth to fall closed and his features to settle. But his jaw is still set and his forehead is furrowed down the center. After a while, he repeats "That was a long time ago" in a low, grave voice.

"Was it, Mr. Marsh?" St. Claire asks.

Stan bites his lip. Shakes his head. Becomes eighteen again when he whispers, "Yes. But it might as well have been yesterday."

_What great fortunes for the government that people do not think._

**- Adolf Hitler**


	2. 1997: Business as Usual

**A/N**: Alright, alright, now we're talking. XD Sorry if the prologue was a little confusing. But, if anything, here's the first official chapter of _Burnt Ashes_.  
>If you don't understand right away what's going on, you will soon.<br>It all adds up in the end, I promise! :)  
>And yes, Erik Ernst-Schröder is my character, as are any other names you don't recognize from <em>South Park<em>. He and Baümer have huge roles in this, so expect to see them more often in the story. It's been a long while since I've written a truly villainous character, so forgive me if I kind of...trail of their personalities a little, lol.  
>I will explain further what the <em>Nachtruhe<em> (German for "Night's Rest") is in the next chapter, and, obviously, how Stan got into this whole mess in the first place. Reviews appreciated. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>May, 1997<strong>

To many, being in the vicinity of the most wanted man in Germany – perhaps even the whole of Europe – would be as exhilarating as terrifying. But, a thought that often amused Stan Marsh was that plenty of Berlin's countless other citizens had; the most wanted man wasn't a shy one. He frequented numerous street shops and pubs every single day, crossing the same roads as millions of others and drinking the same bitter, ersatz Dutch coffee that the hacks surrounding him paid three Euros for. He blended in flawlessly, spoke perfect German from a perfect German heritage – and could cross into English for the tourists – and was an all-around charming lad.

But then again, not many would suspect the young, good-looking Aryan with an amiable smile to actually be the infamous, cold-blooded cartel head Erik Ernst-Schröder.

Erik had that advantage, Stan supposed. He was practically a _kid_, after all roughly a year older than Stan himself and perhaps an inch shorter, standing around five ten. He wasn't threatening in anyway, at maybe one hundred pounds, and had the skin tone of snow. His nose, broken several times in what he told people to be 'unfortunate accidents' (which meant, of course, that some of his victims had managed to punch his infuriatingly calm face before their throats were slit) had a slight ridge in the middle, one that angered the anti-Semite immensely. Stan had always thought, though, that if somebody had ever had the strength to make eye contact with the demon, that they would perhaps catch a glance of Hell itself inside of those gold, cobra-like eyes of his. But no one ever had the gut to, for something inhuman was always alive behind Erik's pretty, youthful face.

The sun was under the cover of clouds that day, for even it retreated when Erik ventured beyond his cave of a dwelling, the hotel _Nachtruhe_. It was still blistering hot out, a plague of heat that would get progressively worse throughout that summer, though that was perfectly acceptable, seeing how the heat kept most at bay as Stan and Erik looked truly unsuspicious crossing through Berlin's political district toward a place of business the German favored. Stan himself was no fan of carrying out deals beyond their resident lodging, but sad to say, since the beginning, Ernst took a particular interest in Stan, and enjoyed dragging him around everywhere. He was Ernst's favorite employee.

Stan supposed that made him a luckier one. Many of Erik's thousands of foot soldiers had yet to see the unadulterated evil lingering just past their boss' flawless edges, and seeing it emerge even once was enough to destroy a person – Stan being no exception. Five years of it and these days, it would take a bullet to the forehead just to get him to even flinch.

Of course, nobody knew that, strapped all across his back beneath his loose-fitting gray t-shirt, Erik had a fully-loaded M4 carbine assault rifle, as well as a Smith & Wesson tucked into the brand of his dark jeans, Stan with one to match. It wasn't this level of weaponry that startled Stan terribly, but the ten-inch Wusthof blade Erik packed before they left that gave Stan the hint of what was meant by 'meeting downtown with the Serbians.' Guns meant nothing Erik. To him, it was comparable to a smack with the backside of his hand. But when he brought a knife, then it indicated a deeper brand of personal matters. There was nothing the German loved more than taking a blade to the necks of all those who dared to cross him.

To be honest, Stan wasn't terribly surprised that the Serbian mafia hadn't held down their end of the deal. Even the Russians had turned down Erik's proposition to spy on his longtime rival and fellow cartel head, Herr Maximilian Baümer. Perhaps the Italians would have been willing to take down one of the few mutual enemies they shared with Ernst, but they refused to speak with him after he became a true threat to their precious cocaine distribution. "Fucking wops," Erik had said when he learned of the Italians decline to collaborate, but that had been all. Because, if there was one cartel that topped even Erik's impressive band of thugs and peddlers, it was the Italians and their 35 million Euro net-worth. Erik was, if nothing else, intelligent enough to know the consequences should he tamper with them.

But Stan had known right from the beginning that the Serbians were a poor choice to turn to. They were cowards at the ugliest definition of the word, though Stan often wondered if perhaps Erik already realized this, and had more interest in exerting his dominance over them than actually expecting them to help. With Erik, though, everything was a question mark, even for Stan. So he didn't ask, just nodded vacantly when he was ordered to 'throw on his best clothes and get ready' in the hour before.

Each step down the soiled walkway, a dismal mess under the overcast clouds, pressed Stan's hipbone into the Wesson. He took no notice of it. They entered the long tunnel beneath the freeway overpass lying between them and their destination. Overhead, cars rumbled down over the asphalt toward destinations that had grown alien to Stan, creating a steady, low roar of tires whistling over the road. All along the walls of the overpass' concrete support beams were various forms of street art, some depicting gang tags – a fair few of them belonging to Erik's cartel – and some variations of the Swastika and holy cross, thought most were threatening political messages in a jumbled chaos of German, Hebrew, and English. When Stan dared to glance over, he managed to make out a black shadow of a young girl that had been stenciled carefully across the gray walls, a red balloon sprayed into her hand. Below were the words 'THERE IS NO HOPE NOW.'

Frightened, he fixed his eyes on the cigarette butts and bits of broken liquor bottles polluting the dirty sidewalk.

"You alright?" Somehow, Erik possessed the ability to sense exactly how Stan was feeling the exact instant he was feeling it. Unnerved, he was hardly able to answer back.

"Yeah." His voice fell, hollow and flat.

Erik was surely looking at him now, but Stan refused to meet the hellion crossfire of his employer's amber stare. He kept his eyes straight ahead, trying his hardest to remember how to walk properly.

There was a pause. Then, Erik said in a tone that might've resemble revulsion, "Disgusting. This city has been thrown to the dogs." His foot scraped the pavement, Stan vaguely following the motion of Erik kicking a broken condom scrap out of his path into the street.

Thankfully, they had reached the end of the tunnel, and emerged under the gray blanket of day looking like two young friends taking a stroll. None of the varying shops lining the road in this neighborhood appeared to be fully operational; numerous broken windows were boarded up from within with rotting wood, the once red, blue, and dark green outer walls chipping and curling so severely that the buildings appeared to be wearing coats of lizard skin. Many of them served as canvases for even more graffiti. They were old, and had long fallen out of public use. Signs reading in German about great deals on shoes, liquor, groceries, and home appliances were so severely discolored that they could scarcely be read, letters curled off and paint fading. At the end of the deserted block, a man in a thick black trench was hardly able to walk with his back to them, pushing a shopping cart of belongings. He wore no trousers or footwear.

When they passed by one of the several metal trash tins, Stan was bombarded with an assault of phosphorous and aged marijuana smoke. Piqued, he glanced at the source of the odor. Piled midway in the can was a heap of black soot, no doubt once one of the various dated newspapers floating up and down the road. He winced at the stench.

To be fair, nobody had ever called Stan strong to the unwashed face of poverty.

"_Widerlich_," Erik spat yet again. He eyed a nearby storm drain, swelling with yellowing periodicals, dead leaves, and discarded tools of the resident junkies, with cold contempt. "What a blessing we don't have to live in this shithole," he said, applying one of his favorite American curses.

If Stan had been any stupider, he might've mentioned how Erik could have just had this meeting with the Serbians elsewhere, if the poorer districts repulsed him so much. But he didn't dare speak. Erik did not take kindly to smartasses.

This meeting place turned out to be an old warehouse just beyond the edge of the block. It appeared vulnerable in its gigantic – albeit thoroughly empty – lot. Part of the roof was missing, and Zionist and Nazi symbols alike served as decoration to the ancient building. Stationed outside the sliding steel door that acted as an entrance were two men, both fair-haired and blue-eyed and barely distinguishable from one another, other than the different guns they held firmly out in plain view. Their grips tightened on the warlike weaponry upon spotting Stan and Erik casually approaching, not quite believing that their expected visitors could be two unarmed boys, both in jeans.

"Gentleman," Erik purred, his stride not breaking as he made his way to the door resembling a garage. Stan was amused by the concept that, seeing Erik walking so briskly toward it, that he intended to do what he intended to do with everything he made haste for: tear it to pieces.

There was no doubt in Stan's mind that, perhaps Erik could.

"Hmph," the larger of the two guards grunted. "You are the one called Ernst, then?" His accent was so heavy that his voice had the noise of something drowning.

"That I am." Erik smiled pleasantly up at them through the foot of air separating him from the two giant men. And even with that height difference, his presence was still more commanding than theirs.

One of them, the one who had yet to speak, focused his beady, azure eyes on Stan. The boy felt his heart give a quick jolt, then fell dead yet again in the cavity of his chest. He looked back, staying behind Erik and seizing up the two Northern monsters without an evident concern.

"Who this?" demanded the one with his gaze locked on Stan. His English was broken by the scar cut across his wide lips.

"A visitor." Erik flicked his head to the side, and Stan drew up next to him silently. Nobody spoke for a moment. "I hope that won't be a problem, _arschloch_."

The Serbians stiffened at the curse, but Erik held his ground. They exchanged glances after a moment, then slid off in opposite directions. The bigger one barked an order in what sounded like Russian, and with a tremendous howl of effort, the steel door began to rise, its slats falling backwards as it went up. Stan cast a glance to the side, spying the small, pleased smile on Erik's mouth. Almost too easy.

The inside of the warehouse was even more appalling than the outside. It was completely empty, aside from the four men gathered in a tight circle at the very center of the enormous space, and the once-brushed concrete beneath their feet now emitted plumes of dust with every step they took. It was near-black, aside from the light streaming in from the sole two windows lining the back wall of the building, and it was damn cold, even considering the high temperature outside. But none of this could be processed quickly enough for Erik to scowl or Stan to shudder from the cold, for from the small cluster of spies, a man's thick voice cried out, "Gentleman, gentleman, welcome!"

"You'll need to be replacing those watchmen you have, Novak!" Erik called back, his voice once again dripping with superficial warmth. "Quite a disrespectful bunch, eh?"

"Perhaps," said whom Stan was assuming was Novak. "But no matter – we here to discuss _business_, no?"

"_Ja_." Now he was rhapsodizing. And that smile. Stan's spine fully hardened out in the cold. He couldn't see any weapons on any of the others, and it sickened him to think they were foolish enough to believe that Erik was merely confiding in them and their utter failure to uphold their end of the deal.

Nevertheless, he stared straight ahead with cold eyes.

Upon drawing closer, it could be seen that the men were standing around a small, scratched table. The chair creaked so greatly beneath Erik and Stan's weights that Stan feared the furniture may break. Erik seemed tremendously pleased with the food placed upon the metal surface of the table, immediately reaching for a slice of cake. "Do help yourself," said one of them, though Stan doubted Erik heard a word of it. He dipped into the treat right away.

"So." The leader, Novak, sat down at the head of the table while Erik noisily tore into his cake. "I understand we have problem?"

Erik did not answer – a true gentleman, seeing how his mouth was full. But his venomous eyes sought Stan, and he spoke without having to be verbally prompted: "Herr Ernst's main concerns lie in your unwillingness to impeach upon Herr Baümer's lines. It makes him think that…perhaps you have gone soft."

He punctuated his speech with a perfected coldness used when discussing dealing. Beside him, he felt Erik's smirk of approval. Stan knew what needed to be said, and that he was to keep his gaze turned to Novak at all times.

The man gave Stan a thoughtful once-over, seemingly puzzled that such a good-looking, unquestionably American boy could be tangled up in such a dark business. "And who might you be, boy?" he asked, more curious than anything.

_Ignorant prick_, Stan thought bitterly. "Marsh."

"Marsh," Novak repeated, massacring the name with his heavy brogue. He motioned to the food laid out before him, which nobody besides Erik seemed to have interest in. "Well Marsh, perhaps you like a piece of cake. I hate for food to go to waste."

"I'm not hungry."

"Is very good cake," the man persisted. "Is best recipe in Serbia, I assure you."

"I'm not hungry." It served as a stalemate, and Novak did not bring the issue up again. He spoke directly to Erik, who wasn't paying a terrible amount of attention to the conversation.

"You must understand, Ernst _Gospodin_," said the Serbian. "Is very big operation to spy on Baümer." In his accent, Baümer's name was one hardly capable of being distinguished. "And we are businessman. We are very careful with who we trust to do business with, _da_?"

"Mmm." Erik nodded, absently licking his lips. He was more engrossed in the food than anything.

"So." The man leaned forward, the fur of his overcoat bunching on the tabletop. For once, it was him making eye contact with Erik, instead of Erik making him too afraid to even remember his own name. The German plucked a strawberry off his dish and placed it between his teeth, unconcerned with what was being said to him. "Before we agree to send soldiers on such dangerous mission, we must know: Can we trust in you, Ernst?"

"Can you trust in me?" Erik echoed as though no understanding. He paused, taking a moment to swallow the fruit in his mouth. "Well. You are not dead yet, now are you?"

The Serbian brood looked whole-heartedly confused.

"And." There. There it was. Stan felt his pulse stutter to a halt in his neck. Erik's voice had gone cold with familiar venom. His cobra's eyes, now pinning Novak to his chair across a wall of frozen air, gained that black, threatening quality Stan knew all too well. "I think…that should be changed."

The order was issued in one, low stroke.

Although the confused bunch of Northern spies didn't seem to comprehend what was being said, Stan snapped to attention. His hands abandoned the table, flying to his belt; however, before he could even withdraw his weapon, Erik was already armed. In surprised shouts, the others jumped to their feet, fumbling for their guns, but it would never be quick enough. In what seemed to be all one motion, Erik had his blade out and planted in the hand of one man – thus locking him to the table – and his Wesson completely outstretched in an iron grip, poised to kill.

He planted a bullet in the other two men's heads without an emotion to be found on his face.

Stan knew it was his duty to slay the man trapped by a knife to the table, who was now howling in pain at the cleaver fixed between his tendons. And he did so, burying his gun's barrel into the man's head and slaying him before he could even get his neck cry out. His mouth fell open, crocodilian teeth bloody with the brains blown out all over them, his eyes rolling back. With a penultimate gasp, he collapsed forward onto the table. The blood pooling around the Wusthof carved a rivulet of crimson to the floor, and the only sound to be heard was its dripping onto the cold ground.

At his corner of the table, Novak was petrified with fear and shock. He uttered a pitifully loud cry when Erik strode forward and seized him by the lapel of his flashy, counterfeit fur coat. "Now," the German snarled in a voice that was painful to even hear, "you listen to me, _schmutz_ – this is not a matter of trust. This is a matter of doing what you are told _when_ I tell you to. And I instructed to send some of your men to watch Baümer, did I not?"

Novak could not speak. And Erik, repulsed by the man's blatant weakness (the one thing truly able to infuriate him,) grew a newfound rage as he violently shook the frozen Serbian, though his voice never ventured above a murmur: "_Did I not?_"

"D-da," Novak choked out.

"Then you _do_ it." Erik, done, released the man's jacket, then shoved him back as he moved back to fasten his gun under his waistband. Novak very near fell out of his chair, but managed to steady himself just in time. The whites of his eyes glowed in the poor lighting, mouth still greatly ajar. As Stan swabbed off the Wusthof's stainless steel blade, Erik sneered and, retrieving his empty plate off the table, smashed it cleanly over Novak's shaved head. He shouted in surprise and pain, hand covering his skull while the porcelain pieces dug into the skin.

"Weak," Erik hissed, taking the now spotless knife from Stan without even looking at it. Then they turned to go, leaving Novak and the three dead bodies to rot together in the dark, dank warehouse.

Once outside, Erik put two more bullets in each of the guards' faces, he and Stan a good twenty feet away before the simian beasts had even fallen to the Earth.

And on their way back to the _Nachtruhe_ – yet another wordless journey – Stan could feel the ice growing further over the both of them in spite of the heat, feel the weight of his gun and the crash of its barrel into his hipbone as he watched himself place it against the Serbian's skull and blow his head off over and over and over.

_Misery leads to crime._

- **Albert Fish**


	3. 1992: Freedom

****A/N**: **Pardon me for the time shifts; I just really wanted to compare how much Stan changes during this whole thing before I further progress, because that's really the concept of the whole story. So...yeah. Here's the setting up of how exactly Stan lands his ass in Germany (not quite the whole thing, but we're getting there!) And you like the foreshadowing at the end? _BECAUSE THERE'S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM. _And jealous Craig, good God. He's gonna be fun to work with.  
>Enjoy! :D<p>

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><p><strong>June, 1992<strong>

Every summer, the local bar in South Park, Colorado, got a regular workout. Recent high school grads – loud-mouthed brats with acid wash jeans, toques pulled down to their eyes, Walkman buds dangling from the collars of their recycled cotton tees as they leered over the edge of the bar – who thought they could use a little liquid celebration, were kicked out all season long for rowdiness, destruction of property, and picking fights with patrons when they didn't have their way. The tattooed bouncer didn't mind, but the bar owner was especially furious with all the trouble the town kids were causing in his place of business. He often considered raising the drinking age to nineteen rather than eighteen, but a fair deal of these kids were nineteen already, and the state of Colorado would've never allowed him such exclusive rights. So, for three miserable months out of the year, he'd watch the brash young folk stroll in, carelessly sling tens and twenties at whoever served the drinks that night, and hassle any girl who dared to pass them.

But 1992 was that summer that his bar gained a tremendous amount of fame, to the point that he would see whole classrooms of teenagers take over the place each night. It was all due in part to a rather unfortunate accident that occurred not a block from the establishment in June of that year – an accident that involved four of the bar's patrons that night, who had been leaving when they out and out _murdered_ an innocent man. The rumor went that the bar cursed any teenager who drank there with an appetite to kill, which, as ridiculous as it seemed, did great for the business. Cocky kids would come in, order a dozen beers and sometimes even more than that, and drink as if they'd been parched their entire lives. Often, few would make it out without a little assistance, but the owner couldn't complain for their company anymore. His bar was in great business. Later on, he supposed he could thank those four dunderheads who, all for the price of killing a stranger, boosted the sales of alcohol tenfold over multiple state lines.

It wasn't like these four dunderheads were unknown to South Park, either. They were a notorious quartet, famous for – if nothing else – getting into countless trouble around town for the eighteen years they'd lived there. It started as early as kindergarten, and only grew progressively worse from there. By middle school, two of the boys had been arrested and booked six months jail time for setting fire to the school gym (an incident in which one of the boys nearly burned to a crisp in the flames, but was miraculously in fine health and healed enough to laugh about the incident the day after.) By eighth grade, one of them was a clinically diagnosed sociopath, which, even though it was considered taboo to label somebody so young as such, surprised nobody to found out. He was, after all, part of the four boys who, at the start of high school, put a classmate in the hospital for six months after throwing hydrochloric acid they found in the chem lab on him (to which they later explained, they just wanted to rough him up a bit for ratting on them to principal about changing a few grades in their record books; they had 'no idea that that acid stuff would actually _hurt_ him.') The four boys who earned a three-day suspension from the teachers, and Standing O from the students, on their performance of Sonic Youth's 'Disappear' for the sophomore talent show; the four boys who went missing for nearly five days in the second month of their senior year, and were found alive, and in a drug-induced daze, wandering along the train tracks a few towns over. Yeah. Those four boys –

Eric Cartman, Kenny McCormick, Stan Marsh, and Kyle Broflovski.

The real kicker that had done them in, even before the murder, was in the middle of eleventh grade, when a classmate of theirs, Rebecca Miller, came forward and claimed that the four's resident slut and playboy, Kenny, along with his best friend (and the most villainous of them all) Eric and the four's decided 'leader', Stan, had herded her into the second floor bathroom and forced her to go down on temperamental choirboy, Kyle, who, in spite of his tough-talking exterior, had supposedly never gotten a blowjob. And of course Rebecca was truthful, but not that anybody besides the principal and a few of the teachers cared. All anyone could talk about, could possibly fathom, was the fact that sweet and pure Kyle Broflovski had face-fucked Rebecca Miller…in front of an _audience_, no less. That, they all agreed, took balls, which were rumored to have gone into that slut Rebecca's mouth, as well, she'd been so into it.

So, technically, the four had never asked to get famous. It was their classmates' shocking willingness to so easily disregard a girl's humiliation in favor of admiring a boy's devious act that got the four so well-known, as Kenny, Eric, and Stan were credited for it, as well. Because, while Kyle was praised for months after the fact and finally considered a hot commodity not _just_ to Bebe Stevens anymore, but to a staggering 72% of the junior girls at Park County High, Rebecca Miller was labeled the class skank and had left school by the seventh week of the whole mess (that she'd ever existed was basically forgotten by the eighth.) That's how easy it had been. From then on out, the four were on par with heroes to their classmates, no matter how low they sunk, no matter who got hurt, so long as they still looked good in the end.

But it was when somebody finally _did_ get hurt, it was a different story entirely.

Perhaps because of their fame, or perhaps just because of the sheer joy of finally escaping high school, graduation for Eric, Kenny, Kyle, and Stan was a fantastical celebration in which, when the principal hollered goodbye to the graduating class of 1992 through the microphone that June day, the responding, collective scream was so loud that the earth seemed to crack beneath their feet. Swathed in navy cotton, the graduates roared with glee as they thundered out of the building, out into the world where they would soon rule, where they could look upon those younger than them and sneer 'kid' without feeling a slight pang of hypocrisy. It was the greatest feeling in the world, that momentous sense of _freedom_ they experienced that afternoon. And the four were no exception to that sense, clamoring with excitement as they shed their graduation garb, all but ignoring the desperate calls of their parents to wait, hold on a minute, boys, at their backs as they made their way with countless others into town.

Walking out in the sunlight, down the block toward town, the differences between the quartet had never been more defined. Though they'd managed to stay friends for close to two decades now, it was no secret that the warfare of adolescence had destroyed whatever they shared in common, and it was not until they were young adults and now free to do as they pleased that one could see this. Hardly the same species they were, making their way to an unknown destination under the glorious blaze of the sun.

Perhaps the most obvious out of the four was Eric. The sheer size of the boy, and not just in his enormous girth, made the other three appear to be planets revolving around him. He stood over six feet and had quite the impressive waistline, though it was a look he pulled off shockingly well, for he did not look overweight. In fact, the great bulge of his stomach appeared to be but a testament to his enormous power. And power he had, pleasantly tucked away into his eyes, which had the golden sheen of honey and were perhaps just as sweet. They were his favorite tools of trade, whether it be in something as simple as scamming a victim out of their lunch, or cheating his way out of a week's worth of detention. Not only that but, with age, it had become impossible to deny that Eric was quite easy on the eyes of others. His appearance was a clean one – his brown hair was always well-kept and combed, his clothes were always pressed and hugged tight to his great form, and, perhaps most important of all, his teeth were the blinding pearly white needed to win any female who dared to fall into his trap with just a single flash.

Likewise, his closest friend out of the four of them (though whether or not their relationship could be considered 'friendship' was debatable,) Kenny, was a beautiful mess by comparison. While most struggled to create the effortlessly disheveled, bed-headed look the boy wore on a daily basis, often Kenny found himself awakening with his golden grain hair beyond hope at being brushed, and his striking aqua eyes more than a little bloodshot because, often, his nights were spent in the company that encouraged such a distressed morning look. One glance and one could see why he had been so favored by the crowd of oversexed, pot-smoking teenagers; Kenny McCormick was no less than gorgeous. Though his home life had been less than favorable, age hadn't treated him any worse the others…in fact, it often seemed that the torment of middle and high school hadn't even dared to touch such an angel. In addition to his eternally messy blond head and inexplicably haunted blue eyes, his skin was flawless, crème in color and fitting nicely over every subtle curve of his thin body. His face was forever young, slightly feminine in the quality of its youth, but wholly inviting nonetheless.

The same could not be said for Kyle, who – while he shared his baby face and its attractive approach with Kenny – had the edge of someone much older and wiser. His eyes were a deep and profound emerald green, with the same sparkling glimmer of the precious gems. They hid beneath a thick fringe of coal black lashes, and those were shadowed by the springing waves of crimson red spraying around his slender face and down his forehead. In times of great stress, Kyle would often tug incessantly at his wild hair, a bad habit that had branched off into a few others. He was wholly intellectual in the way he walked, often with a schoolbook or fat paperback tucked beneath his arm, and all the while, dangerously savage in the way he cut arguments – and ultimately, the world he despised living in – to shreds with a mere quirk of an eyebrow, or a cutting remark from his pale mouth. Kyle was a delightful clash of fury, intelligence, and a passion that no one could weigh on a side of good or bad.

However, in the ways of passion, Kyle's best friend of the group, and perhaps the greatest friend of any group he knew, Stan, lacked magnificently in such a category. That being said, his exterior wasn't disappointing or dull in any way. His hair, although jet black, was always clean, and gleamed so greatly in the right light that one could detect shimmers of indigo transcending the sleek, dark surface. Another superb trace of indigo could be seen much more plainly on the boy, and that was in his rich sapphire eyes. Often, they held no life at all, but in moments of great sentiment, a certain poignancy could be seen fluttering in the midnight color from time to time…although, such emotion was usually only influenced by the tremendous vigor held by his best friend. And for this, Stan could not be blamed, for life had never been really able to truly touch him much beyond his cold exterior. His mouth held a deceptively acidic tongue, though, one that had occasionally shocked even Stan himself with its spiteful quickness. Whether or not his chest contained a beating heart, though, was beyond question, once enough time had been spent observing the interactions between him and Kyle.

The four had chosen selective band t-shirts to showcase their newfound independence in loud, rebellious ways – Kenny was sporting the distorted album cover to _Bleach_ on his favorite, worn Nirvana shirt, while Cartman paid homage to Nine Inch Nails with his monogram NIN tee pulled across his immense stomach, and Stan and Kyle both remained true to Led Zeppelin, Stan's shirt reading "LET THE LED OUT," in angry, bold letters, and Kyle's more subtle in displaying the band's four signature symbols. They all wore their best denim (except Kenny, who favored the cheaper alternative, camouflage cargo pants), either tucked into to combat boots, or falling over canvas Chuck Taylors. Their faces, already wrecked by years of frowning and screaming, were gleaming with joy for once, and their hair might've been a collective mess, but they could care less for their destroyed states of appearance. Right now, what mattered was what Kenny so valiantly announced next –

"We need to get smashed."

While Stan and Kyle nodded solemnly, Eric declared in that peculiar accent of his, "My mom gave me some money before I left the house today. We could…pick up some bourbon on the way home and tag cars passing under the Lincoln overpass with the empty bottles, if you guys are up for it." He had a note of hope in his voice.

But Kyle shook his wild, red head; being the moral center of the group, it was his duty at a time like this to correct Eric's immortality, although he normally did it at a much louder volume. Today, though, he supposed was special, as he spoke at a respectful level: "Getting arrested on my first day out of school? That's a definite no."

Eric sighed at what he seemed to deem the slower side of his Jewish companion. "We won't get arrested, Kahl," he stated matter-of-factly. "The cops in this town are usually on their asses this time around, anyways."

"Well," Stan stated without being prompted, which was strange indeed, "I don't need them to be on _our_ asses for something stupid. That idea's out."

Kyle cast him a strange look. Their three-inch height difference had never been more evident than at that moment, as Stan smiled slightly down at his best friend. He linked his arm through Kyle's, and every few steps, intentionally bumped elbows with him. Kyle smiled at something on the sidewalk.

"_Fine_," Eric huffed in short defeat. They rounded a corner, pushing further into the deadened heart of town. "So then what do we do?"

After a moment of thoughtful silence, it was Kenny that answered: "I know where my parents stash their vodka."

Eric's mouth tightened into a sneer. "Um, no offense, Kinny, but I'm not interested in your family's cheap-ass liquor, thank you."

"Cheap-ass?" Kenny repeated, clapping a hand to his chest in mock anguish. Years of suffering through Eric's constant abuse had taught the boy to be all but immune to the light jabs, even treat them as a joke. "I beg to differ – it's Absolut!"

"Well, Aboslut –" the large boy's grin broadened at the mirthful reactions of all three of his friends "– still don't interest me, Ken. Unless you've got Crystal Head."

Kenny shook his head. "Nah, man. My parents would rather purchase meth than that expensive shit."

Eric laughed in his version of agreement.

"I don't know," said Stan, throwing the bangs out of his eyes. "I mean…we could just, y'know. Go home."

"Oh Stan," Kyle pouted, trying to ignore the fact that they were joined at the elbow or just how plainly he was flirting, "don't be _boring_."

His coquetry, however, was rewarded with a pleased look from Stan, and the subtle kick of his foot from below at Kyle's leg. The redhead inwardly smiled, kicking back.

"Yeah, dude," Kenny pressed, pleasantly oblivious to the teasing taking place right in front of him. "Don't be boring. The least we could do now that we're the fuck out of high school is try and _enjoy_ ourselves for real."

At this, Eric had to laugh. "Like how? Taking hits out of some half-empty vodka bottle in your bedroom?"

"That's not what I said."

"Seemed like it." Eric smirked, hip-bumping Kenny with such violence that it almost appeared to shatter the fragile boy. However, he recuperated just fine, unharmed as he smacked his friend on the arm. They swapped grins of silent truce.

"Better than 'going home,'" Kyle stated matter-of-factly. Stan, eyes wide with mock hurt, appeared ready to defend himself, but just dipped his head and chuckled, to which Kyle insisted seriously, "Well it's _true_."

Another comfortable moment of silence passed, the boys successfully dodging the group of kindergartners hurtling toward them. The children were not so lucky, however, as the four heard a familiar voice declare in about as much anger as it could muster, "_Move_, brats" behind them. They spun, not really interested, to find the _epitome_ of disinterest, Craig Tucker, following about fifteen feet behind them with his usual entourage of outcasts, Clyde Donovan, Token Black, and Thomas Casselman. The new group of four, upon meeting the eyes of Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Eric, flashed near-identical expressions of vague warmth.

Except, of course, Craig, who idly gave them the bird. None of them were offended, though. High school had taught them that it was best to ignore such small marks of contempt, especially the trademark middle finger of Craig Tucker. "Hey, fags," he greeted in his flat voice. The Tucker boy, which age, had gone through shifting phases of caring and not caring, until he'd finally settled into a permanent lull of indifference. The only one of their classmates who could match his perpetual apathy was Stan, a quality which had somewhat created an alliance between them. Craig, after all, only really seemed to be acknowledging Stan, who dipped his chin in hello.

"Going somewhere?" asked Craig, not sounding terribly interested in the slightest. His eyes didn't exactly connect to any of theirs, instead finding more significance in their arms and legs.

"Not really." Though he wasn't asked, Kyle answered. He hardly masked the sneer in his tone. "You?"

Craig didn't reply, only grunted slightly. His gaze finally found a place to settle, and wherever it was, it twisted his level, smooth face into a plain scowl. Stan and Kyle alike felt their cores heating up when they realized what Craig seemed so intently drawn to.

"We were just headed to the bar," Clyde said, friendlier than his dark-haired companion. In their years of knowing each other, Clyde has still managed to ignore the fact that he was nowhere near being friends with the four; he much preferred to pretend such, for the sake of being the nice guy all his past girlfriends seemed to take him for. "You wanna come with?"

"No way!" The way Kenny was trilling, one might think he was mocking Clyde, which wasn't true in the slightest. "We were just thinking of getting drunk."

"Correction." Eric eyed Kenny with malicious delight. "_Kinny_ was thinking of getting drunk. We're not really sure _what_ we wanna do."

Token smiled absently. Beside him, Thomas tightened up and spasmed slightly, suppressing one of the many curses brought on by his Tourette's. "Well it might be a good idea, 'cause like – you're all eighteen right?" At the four's in-sync nods, Token continued. "Then you should definitely come with."

"Why are you arm-in-arm?" Craig spit, unable to contain himself any longer. At his contemptuous interruption, his friends glanced down to what he was gesturing to with his long, crooked forefinger. Kyle and Stan both stiffened at the attention, though they didn't drop their arms. "Are you queer or something?" Craig asked in scarcely disguised jealously.

"Holy shit, what," Clyde breathed out in confusion, as though he didn't quite understand the act of bare affection before him.

"Dude," Eric declared, nose scrunched up in distaste. Kenny didn't react in the slightest, other than his eyebrows arcing slightly and a smile crimping the corners of his mouth. Taking in the best friends' linked elbows, the Nazi brunette finally shook his head. "Not. Cool."

"Oh please," Kyle muttered, rolling his burning emerald eyes, though there was an obvious uncertainty to his actions. Brushing it off completely, in an act that both surprised and delighted the stoic Stan, he turned to Token and said, "So. Bar? What time?"

"Um." At Craig' interruption, Token looked to have lost his place for a second. Shaking it off, he at last said, "Around six-thirty, seven is usually when we go."

"Sometimes earlier," Clyde put in helpfully. Thomas nodded vigorously, while Craig continued to eye Stan and Kyle's joined arms with a narrow look of hate. "Just depends, really."

"But we should definitely go, huh?" Kenny appeared genuinely interested. "Why? Is it good?"

Clyde offered Kenny a mischievous inclination of his head. "Dude – tits and beer. Can you really argue with that?"

Finally sold, the blond turned to Eric and, tugging his sleeve, almost whined when he said, "Can we, Eric? _Pleaaase_?"

"Oh lord," Eric muttered, his amber eyes rotating in their signature dismissive gesture. However, he was smiling. "Sure, Kinny. Whatever will satisfy you. But if you _really_ want tits and beer, you should go to Germany."

"Maybe someday, you Nazi," Stan said from across the group, as they all silently pushed off together. The dark-haired boy didn't even seem to realize what he was saying, his arm stilled joined in Kyle's, walking with his closest friends and Craig's entourage to an unknown destination, when he repeated with definite sarcasm, "Maybe someday."

Eleven hours of true freedom left.

_By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes._

- **William Shakespeare**


End file.
